


Living on Flood Tides

by cherie_morte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell Trauma, M/M, Weather, post-season 5 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 17:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_morte/pseuds/cherie_morte
Summary: AU after 5x22:Sam mysteriously returns from the cage and Dean thinks their problems are solved. Unfortunately, Sam is so shaken from his time in Hell that he can't—won't?—even talk to Dean, and when natural disasters begin to occur as frequently as they did when the Devil was walking the Earth, Dean realizes his brother may have acquired some of the angel's powers without picking up the ability to control them. In order to prevent Sam from hurting anyone, Dean finds a house as far from anything as he can manage and settles there to wait until the day Sam gets better—or until they both get killed by Sam's grace.





	Living on Flood Tides

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of my 2013 Sam/Dean OTP minibang originally found [here](http://infatuated-ink.livejournal.com/87956.html). Art by [quickreaver](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/) [here](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/80395.html).

It's been raining for three days straight. Not the weirdest thing that's ever happened in Dean's life, given, but considering the drought that's been going on and the fact that no one—not even the weathermen—saw it coming, it's worth noting. Three days of steady pouring, like the sky has finally gotten so sick of watching over this festering wound of a planet that it's falling down.

There hasn’t been any rain for six months. Pretty much since Sam went under, though Dean's sure he's forcing that connection. Everything that happens gets measured like that these days: before Sam, after Sam. He doesn't know why it scares him so much, this rain, but he can't make himself walk away from the window. Maybe it's because things are moving on. When everything stopped with Sam, well, that made sense to Dean. But just look at those goddamn storm clouds. They're not stopping. The world is going on like before, like he wanted it to. That was the whole point of Sam taking the swan dive, after all.

There's a hand on his shoulder, soft but firm enough to jerk him back into attention. He half turns to see Lisa watching him with that worried edge she has, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, just what right he has to be here making her worry like that.

"They're saying the lakes are going to flood if it keeps up like this," she says with a slight laugh. "Can you imagine? Remember how empty Lake Michigan was last month?"

Dean gives her a distracted nod and turns back to the window. They'd taken Ben fishing, not that there was really anything to catch. All the fish that hadn't already dried up were pressing to the center of the lake, close as they could get to deep water. You could see where the waterline usually started and plenty of dry land under it. It was pretty depressing, not that Dean's one to judge what is or is not depressing.

He's trying not to think about it too much. That amount of change happening that quickly—the lakes ready to overflow after three measly days—it feels like a case. And Dean doesn't do cases anymore. Doesn't go looking for them, is not supposed to be finding them.

He scrubs at his face with one hand, hoping to find a little focus, and Lisa is still standing next to him, waiting for some kind of attempt at conversation. Something she can hold on to and use to convince herself that Dean is content and getting better and not thinking about how damn painless a death drowning would be. He owes her that much.

"Bet they're pretty happy for it down south," he says. "They might be able to grow something after all."

"No more dust storms," she agrees, her mouth quirking in that clever way Dean is really pretty fond of. "They're calling it God's work."

Dean swallows a lump. He's got no clue what it is, but he's pretty sure it's not that. "Don't they always?"

Lisa hmms and reaches up, running a couple of fingers over Dean's forehead, as if there's hair to tuck away. Dean leans into it, closes his eyes and kisses her back when she rises to her tiptoes. He does his very best not to remember how Sam's hair would never stay when he did that to it, or how annoying it was to have to get on tiptoes just to kiss his little brother.

"You ready to come up to bed?" she asks when she pulls away.

Dean manages a smile. "You go on ahead. I'm just gonna…"

Lisa frowns, looking worried again. "Don't stay here all night, Dean."

"I won't," he says. "Just wanna watch the rain a little longer. Makes me feel relaxed."

She stands there a few seconds more, and Dean can tell she knows he's full of shit, but she doesn't say anything. He watches her leave and turns back to the steady pattering of water on the window. It's not soothing, really, kind of the opposite of that, but it's hypnotizing anyway. Tonight won't be the first one this week that he spends standing here as if he's waiting for something or someone.

He knows no one's coming for him. But he stays right there anyway. Staring out into a dark street.

There's a crack of thunder that seems to shake the whole house. It keeps going so long Dean comes out of the trance the rain lulled him into and realizes it's not thunder at all. It's knocking. At the door. In the middle of the night during what might as well be a hurricane, if hurricanes could cover 48 states and start on dry land.

Dean's so damn confused he can't think straight, but the knocking won't stop or let up, and he doesn't want Lisa or Ben to wake and come down in case there's a monster standing outside. He flips the switch on the porch light, but it flickers and dies out. He doesn't know if that's the storm killing the power or the thing that's knocking. Power surges usually mean ghost or demon, and either way there's no chance it'll make it through the door. So Dean opens up.

Sam's standing there, staring placidly forward. A strike of lightning flashes across the sky just long enough for Dean to see the black wings coming out of his brother's back. So, Lucifer then. That explains the rain and the unsettled feeling Dean's had since it started, and it explains why he's here. Whatever minor inconvenience Sam caused him by jumping into that cage, those six months it slowed him down, those were Dean's fault.

Dean should maybe be worrying how he got out of the cage or how he's supposed to stop the Devil this time, with no smart ideas and no backup. All he can think is that his little brother is still in there. Whatever Lucifer is going to do to the planet after he's done with Dean, he's going to use Sammy to do it.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asks, hoping he doesn't live long enough to hear the answer.

Sam's face breaks, from indifferent to anguished, and his body crumbles to the floor in front of Dean. The rain stops, as does the thunder and the lightning. Everything goes quiet except for the howling of wind and the sobs coming from his brother's body.

Sam kisses Dean's feet.

By the time Lisa wakes the next morning, Dean's packed what few belongings he had scattered through her house back into the trunk of the Impala. She comes downstairs in her nightdress, looking confused but not alarmed. Then she sees Sam lying across the couch with a sheet tucked around him, his hand in Dean's as Dean watches him sleep, and her mouth closes before she can ask. She nods and doesn't show much on her face as she turns to the kitchen to make coffee.

She brings him a cup shortly after, and Dean reluctantly lets go of Sam's hand to accept it. Then she sits on the armchair to Dean's right and they're both quiet until finally she says, "When are you leaving?"

Dean takes a sip from the coffee and keeps his eyes on Sam's face. "As soon as he wakes up."

"You know you don't have to—" she starts, but she cuts herself off as soon as Dean looks up at her. She sighs and shakes her head. "You'll call, though? You'll still come see us?"

"You really think that's best? For Ben?"

"Yeah, that's really noble, Dean." Lisa's grip tightens on her coffee mug. "I bet you're telling yourself you don't have a choice right now."

"I don't," Dean says, looking back to Sam.

"That's bullshit. That's what you say to feel better about it." Lisa stands. "You don't have to stop living just because—"

"Lise."

She pauses, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Yoga coping, Dean thinks. It works. The fight goes out of her voice. "Just call every now and then. Let me know you're not dead."

"I will," Dean promises, though he's pretty sure they both know he's lying.

She says something about having to get ready for work, and Dean knows to be gone by the time Ben wakes up. Sam stirs after she leaves the room, blinking his eyes slowly. He hadn't said anything last night; Dean had hardly been able to drag him in and onto the couch before he'd passed out.

"Dean," Sam says.

"Sammy." Dean presses a hand to his cheek. "Hey."

Sam turns his face into his pillow, away from Dean's touch, and starts saying Dean's name over and over again. It's another half hour before Dean manages to get Sam calm, by which time he's sitting on the couch, holding Sam up with his arms wrapped tight around his brother. Sam hides his face against Dean and whispers his name every few minutes, but he's mostly quiet. Not that it counts for much; Dean can still feel the tears trickling down his neck.

"Shh, Sammy, it's okay," he whispers. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Dean," is all he says, and he's still crying, and Dean has no goddamn idea what to do, so of course he blurts out the first idiotic thing that comes into his head.

" _You're_ wrong," he says.

Sam stops crying for a few seconds, pulls back far enough for Dean to see his face, which is all blotchy and covered in snot and tears. But there's a confused smile at the corner of his mouth, and Dean frames Sam's face with his hands. "Hey, Sammy, you okay?"

Sam nods in Dean's grasp, bringing one big hand up to wipe at his eyes. Dean searches his face for any sign this is a trick—he knows he's an idiot for believing this is Sam, even for a minute. He saw the wings. And maybe Lucifer could break out of the cage, but Sam? No way.

Still. He's either doing a hell of a job pretending, or that's Dean's little brother in there, and if this is the Devil, if this really is just some elaborate plan to kill him, Dean thinks it's a pretty good way to go.

"You wanna go for a ride?"

Sam nods. Thank god Sam nods, because Dean really wants to get out of here without having to see anymore disappointed faces.

He leads Sam as far as the door before Sam laughs at him, shaking his head as he muscles past Dean and walks ahead on his own. It's kind of a relief, except for how it makes Dean want to trip the cocky little bastard.

The sun hasn’t risen yet. It's already nearing nine in the morning, so it strikes Dean as a little weird. He shrugs it off. He's got a brother who may or may not be Lucifer and is also probably crazy or in pain or something—Dean wouldn't know because Sam hasn't said a goddamn word except for his name. There are bigger things to worry about than a late sunrise.

The drive to Bobby's takes four days. Dean could have driven the distance in one day if he was determined enough, which he damn well is. But the road is insane—they get stopped by more storms, a blizzard, and so many tornados Dean loses count.

Sam sleeps through most of it, tossing and turning and whimpering for hours on end. He still won't talk to Dean, not even when they stop in motels or diners, but he doesn't scream or cry much after the first day. Dean can tell he's distracted by something, but he can always reach Sam when he tries. Sam at least knows who he is and is right there instead of dead, so. Dean's kind of feeling pretty okay about the whole thing, except for the part where the weather seems singularly determined to block them from reaching the one person on Earth who might be able to explain just what the hell Sam is doing topside and what that means for the little Apocalypse they thought they'd averted.

Bobby greets Dean with a wry look, a smack to the side of his head. "I should've known this mess had something to do with you," he says eyeing the storm clouds looming over his house. Then Dean points in Sam's direction. Bobby shuts up after that, staring open-mouthed from Sam to Dean and back to Sam again.

"Is it?" he asks, his eyes still trained on Sam.

"I don't think so," Dean says. "I ran all the tests, but…" Dean bites his bottom lip, not wanting to bring up the wings. Bobby will assume the worst, like Dean should have, and Dean…he can't. Sam's been back for days now and it's him, it's his brother. Dean would know. Dean would have to know. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me."

Bobby doesn't move. He doesn't hug Sam, but he doesn't pick anything pointy up, either. "Dean, that's not your brother," he says, taking a step back. "There's no way he's here, you know that."

"No, it is. It's him," Dean replies, tensing. Bobby is within arm's reach of at least five things that could be used as weapons, and now would be a really good time for Sam to _say something_ in his own defense, but instead he stares ahead like he doesn't recognize a hunter about to strike when he sees it. 

Dean trained him better than that.

Thankfully, one of them is paying attention, and Dean manages to catch the shotgun Bobby pulls from behind the door before he can properly aim it. "I know it's impossible, but it's him." He shoves the gun down, resisting the urge to laugh as he does it. "And if it wasn't, just what the hell good did you think shooting him was gonna do?"

Bobby makes a surly face and grudgingly lets go of his weapon. "How are you so sure it's him? What's he said?"

"He's not talking."

"Oh, that's real promising."

"He—" Dean turns to look at his feet. On the rare occasion that Dean has managed to make Sam laugh since he got back, Dean has seen the smile he fell in love with. That's it, that's all he's got. Bobby won't understand if Dean tries to tell him Lucifer could never hope to laugh like that, but that and the feeling in the pit of his stomach are all he has to go on. "If you've ever trusted me, Bobby, trust me right now. I know Sam when I see Sam."

Bobby makes an annoyed sound and hesitates a few seconds longer. "You seen the forecast lately, boy?"

"Now really the time to talk about the weather?"

"Weather's been going nuts—"

"You're telling me, we were driving through it."

"Exactly." Bobby gives Dean a sorry look. "I figured it was something supernatural, but I was hoping it was a coincidence it was coming from Michigan."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's only been happening on a straight line. Line of tornadoes right along the highway. Everywhere you and that thing must have passed. I'm telling you, Dean, it's not your brother. I'm sorry. I know you want to believe—"

Dean doubts himself for a second before he looks over and there's Sam and god fucking dammit, Dean just got him back, he can't lose him again. It's Sam. It has to be Sam. Dean steps in front of him. "Bobby, this is my brother and either you're gonna let us both in, or you're gonna shoot us both right now."

"We're trapping him in holy fire and calling for backup," Bobby says, but he finally steps aside to let Dean in. Dean watches the surprise on Bobby's face when Sam makes it through the door without a problem, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, too. He'd had plenty of wards at Lisa's, but he knows Bobby's got a ton more tricks up his sleeve. Pretty much anything Bobby knows about—angels included—couldn't make it into his house, but Sam is standing in the hallway, staring up at the ceiling like he's never seen one before.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, tugging his hand forward. "Library?"

"Oh, yeah. Let's start a fire in my library," Bobby snaps. "Idjit."

They end up in the panic room, pretty much the last place on Earth Dean wants to take Sam, but if he recognizes the room at all, he doesn't acknowledge it. Bobby makes a small circle of fire around Sam and lights it, and Sam lets out a scared sound and sits down on the floor whimpering. Dean can hardly see him over the top of the flames, which is making him all kinds of nervous.

Rain starts, dripping in through the devil's trap skylight, and Bobby scoffs. "Goddamn weather," he murmurs. "Think he's trying to put out the fire?"

"No," Dean replies.

Bobby snorts. "No, of course you don't."

"You really think this crazy weather is following Sam?"

"No," Bobby says, pulling some herbs Dean immediately recognizes off a shelf. "I think it's following Lucifer. Just like it did last time."

"If he was Lucifer, don't you think we'd both be dead already? You really think he would have sat down like that and let you trap his ass in holy fire?"

"I don't know what he'd do, Dean. He's a sick bastard. You're probably putting on the best show he's seen in years."

"You gonna call Cas or what?" Dean asks, inclining his head toward the mix of crap on the small table Bobby's setting up.

"Oh, because you're so much quicker at setting up summoning rituals." Bobby lights a match and drops it into the bowl he's prepared, and Dean waits a few seconds before opening his eyes.

"Cas?"

"You may not have heard," says a gravelly voice just behind Dean, "but I am in the middle of trying to win a war. It's very important, so while I would love to stay and fraternize—"

Dean turns, feeling a smile coming on despite himself. "Hey, Cas. Long time."

"Should I start explaining why that is again?"

"I need you to tell me it's him," Dean says, grabbing Castiel's coat by the collar. "Please tell me it's him."

Castiel's eyebrows draw together, and he turns to Bobby, the question clear in his expression.

Bobby points behind him to the ring of holy fire. "We thought this was kind of important."

Castiel's big blue eyes get even bigger when he sees Sam, and Sam stands immediately, showing more energy for this than he has for anything else in days. They stare at each other for a long minute, and then Castiel says the one thing Dean was dreading.

"Lucifer?"

Sam looks back quietly. Or rather, Lucifer does. Dean can feel the weight of Bobby's 'I told you so' coming, but Bobby just squeezes his shoulder and looks sorry.

"I'll kill him," Dean says, seizing forward. "Give me the oil. I'm gonna burn the fucker alive."

Castiel puts a hand out, stopping Dean, shaking his head as he does so. "Wait."

"I don't care if he's your brother, Cas, save it. He's wearing my brother. I'll cook us both if I have to."

Castiel tilts his head. He hasn’t stopped gawking at Sam, and finally he looks to Bobby and Dean, but his face is terrified. "That is not Lucifer."

"You just said—"

"I was recognizing his grace. But I can see now, my brother is not here."

"So, who is then?"

"I would have to check to be sure," Castiel answers. "But the method is painful, and in this case, I think rather unnecessary. Whose soul do you think it is, Dean?"

"Sam," he says. "It has to be Sam."

"You would know your brother better than I would." He snaps, and the fire around Sam goes out, but Sam doesn't move. He's still sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth as the rain pours down on him. Dean rushes forward, picking him up and pulling him away from the part of the room with the open roof, though it's useless by now. Sam is soaked to the bone.

Dean kind of wants Bobby to apologize, but Bobby was pretty gracious when he was right, so Dean lets it drop. There's a much, much bigger picture here. "What did you mean you were recognizing his grace? There's leftover or something? Trace?"

"This is no trace. Lucifer's grace is intact. Your brother is still carrying it."

"So if there have been, say, a buttload of natural disasters this week? What does that mean?"

"It means Sam is very powerful, and his powers are bent on destruction."

"Sam wouldn't cause these things," Bobby says, still sounding skeptical about the whole thing. "People are dying."

"Sam," Castiel says, turning to face Bobby. "Is a human. However strong he has shown himself to be in the past, he cannot control this. The powers are acting out on their own without Lucifer to guide them. It's almost as dangerous to your planet as when Lucifer _was_ controlling them."

"Well, make them stop!" Dean says.

Castiel shakes his head, turning to Dean and Sam. "I cannot."

"Why not?"

"He is stronger than I am," Castiel answers, as if that's just a normal fact and not something really kind of horrifying. Sam, Dean's idiot little brother who used to need Dean to pick him up just to reach a light switch, is walking around with his body packed full of _the fucking devil_. "I can’t overpower him. Only God and Death are stronger, and probably Michael. At any rate, one of them is locked up in Hell and the other two are likely indifferent."

"You can't do anything to make this go away?"

Castiel hesitates. Dean watches his hand clench and unclench at his side and finally he says, "There is something I could do."

"Do it then," Bobby mutters.

"I want to hear the but." Dean catches Castiel's eyes and manages to hold the angel's gaze. "There's always a but."

Castiel nods. "I could absorb his grace into myself. It would make me strong. Too strong, almost. It would make me god," he says, and Dean doesn't like his tone, the way his eyes darken. "I would be able to defeat Raphael easily."

"But," Dean pushes, and Castiel seems to jerk awake.

He frowns. "Dean, your brother was in Hell for a very long time. Lucifer did not treat him kindly. I can tell just by looking at him how much he's suffered."

"What did they do to him?" Dean asks.

"You don't want to know," Castiel answers sadly. "I can only see the damage, not what caused it. But I can tell you I do not want to know either."

"But what does that have to do with his grace?" Dean demands.

"It's the only thing holding him together," Castiel says. Dean feels all his hope collapsing. "If I take that out of him, there's no way his mind or his body will be able to cope with what’s been done to him. He may survive, but he will not be your brother. He might not walk or talk or he may very well simply die. I can't tell you."

Dean pulls Sam against him tighter. Four days and he's supposed to lose his brother again already. Even in Dean's world, that's too cruel to be real. "No," he says. "No."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

After a long period of silence, Bobby speaks up, "Dean, I…I hate to say it, but—"

"No," he growls.

"He could hurt someone like this. He'll probably end up getting himself killed, anyway. And you along with him."

"He'll suffer," Dean says weakly.

"He's suffering now," Bobby points out. "Dean, look at him he's not exactly the picture of mental health."

"And you wanna make it worse?" Dean looks at Castiel. "What do you think we should do?"

"I gave up as much as the rest of you to save this planet. I do not wish to see it destroyed." Castiel gives Sam a pitiful look. "But I do not cherish the thought of inflicting that fate on your brother."

"We can’t ask him this," Dean says, his fingers tangling in the knots at the back of Sam's hair. "We already asked for too much from him, and he did it."

"It's selfish, Dean," Bobby says. "I love Sam with all my heart, you know I do. But you're only thinking of yourself. You know Sam wouldn't have jumped into that hole if he wouldn't have preferred the suffering to causing it for other people."

Dean shakes his head, still holding onto Sam too tight. "I won't let you."

Castiel takes a step forward anyway, reaching a hand out toward Sam. "Sam, this should be your choice. What do you want us to do?"

Sam blinks at him and, after a long time, turns and huddles closer into Dean's embrace. "Dean."

"He can't go on living like this." Bobby points to the panic room floor. "There's already at least three inches of water in here. He'll drown us all."

Castiel nods. "Perhaps if he were isolated, the threat to others would not be as serious?"

Dean grabs onto that, onto the tiny shred of hope it offers. "You were tracking the disasters, weren't you, Bobby? Aside from the rain storm, they only followed us, right? Sam's only a threat within a few miles radius."

"That radius is a little more considerable than a few miles," Bobby says, scratching his beard. "And it's a hell of a gamble, either way."

Castiel turns to look at Dean. "If you leave him somewhere far enough from others, the chances are he will only hurt himself."

"Is there somewhere we can go?"

Bobby sighs. "I got a place in Montana. I let hunters stay there if they need a home base in the area. People hardly ever use it because there aren't many people for monsters to kill around, but I guess that's what you'd be in the market for?"

"That'd be perfect," Dean says. "Sam and I can go there and hole up and—"

"You'll die," Castiel says. "The likelihood is that Sam will destroy you."

"So what, you want me to leave him there by himself?"

Castiel looks away. "Believe it or not, it would be a kindness. When he dies, he will come to Heaven, you both will. You know that. I have seen to that much. He will not feel the cage in Heaven."

Dean's almost tempted to say it's a good time for them both to die, but Sam's hardly gotten to live since he got back. Dean can at least try this before giving up. Worst case is they die anyway. "You can take us there?" he asks Castiel.

Castiel nods.

Bobby interjects himself one last time. "It's a terrible plan, Dean."

"You saying I shouldn't do it?"

Bobby shrugs, but his eyes look almost amused. "I'm saying you're a moron, and that's all I have to say about any of it."

Dean smiles. "I love you too, old man."

Bobby steps forward, first hugging Dean, then giving Sam a longer hug, maybe to make up for not trusting him earlier. As if Sam had even noticed the slight.

"Alright, Cas," Dean says. "Let's get this over with."

Castiel steps forward, his fingers stretching out for Sam and Dean's foreheads and Dean stops him an inch before contact.

"And you'd better bring my car."

Dean sees the half smile on Castiel's face for a moment before he feels a cool rush of wind and hears wings flapping. He looks around to find that they're standing just outside of a pretty decent farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Dean can only really believe it's his because the Impala's parked out front.

"Hey, thanks for helping," Dean says, turning around to find Castiel is still standing behind them with his hands outstretched.

"Don’t mention it," he replies, and then his lips turn down. "I mean that very seriously, Dean. I’m sorry to say I do not have time to stay and talk, and I cannot keep an eye on you and your brother. If this is a disaster, I will not know. Do not pray for my attention unless it is an absolute emergency."

Dean is about to make a witty rejoinder when Castiel disappears, leaving him and Sam—Dean doesn't even know where in Montana. Alone, for miles and miles alone, and that big, unfamiliar house in front of them is supposed to be theirs.

"Welcome home, Sammy," Dean says, hoping he doesn't sound nearly as terrified as he thinks he does.

Sam stares at the house for a few long minutes before hail starts to pelt them and they're forced to rush inside with a little less ceremony than Dean would have preferred.

She's a fixer-upper, that's for damn sure, but the house comes with devil's traps, salt lines taped down on every window, and surprisingly hot running water. Dean's pretty sure it would pass for a home to most people, but to him and Sam, it's practically the Playboy Mansion. Minus all the hot naked chicks. Dean promises Sam he'll work on fixing that, and Sam has the good grace to shake his head, laughing just a bit and shoving Dean's chest as he says his name. Considering it's almost the only word he's heard in the last week, Dean is not even a little bit tired of hearing his own name.

They spend a good chunk of time exploring. The place has three stories and from the top level they can see just how far the flat plains in their backyard go on before there's a fence. Dean kind of wonders how the hell Bobby afforded this, but then the land up here is probably not in high demand, and Bobby did say he'd had the place for years.

Either way, it's a palace as far as Dean is concerned. He stands at the window, staring out at all the empty land and wondering if he and Sam will ever get a chance to make something of it. If Sam will ever be Sam again, not that he's not now, but Dean does kind of miss conversation, as bad as Sam was at making it.

"What do you think, Sammy?" Dean asks, his arm wrapped around his brother's shoulder and his fingers soothing up and down his arm in a way that seems to calm him. "You like it?"

Sam puts his head on Dean's shoulder. There's a warm little smile on his lips, and Dean can't help wondering if Sam is the one causing the bright pink and purple sunset or if it's just a coincidence. It's kind of really beautiful (not that Dean would admit something like that out loud), and not a bad way to end their first—possibly last—day at home.

"You're so gay," Dean mutters.

Dean can just hardly see Sam's smile widening in the window across from them, and then he yawns.

"You tired?"

Sam makes a sleepy sound, so Dean takes his hand and leads him back down to the second floor where most of the bedrooms are. They've got bedrooms now, Dean thinks. What a novelty. Plenty to choose from and no need to wake up before noon to check out of them. The beds even looked halfway decent at first glance, though if they manage to survive more than a few days, Dean is getting some new cards and maxing them out on the best mattress money can buy. He's never had a damn mattress of his own before, he thinks he's earned whatever chance at a few good nights of sleep he can manage.

He picks the best room out and starts moving their few belongings in from the car. It's not the biggest or the best furnished, but Dean figures he can fix that. He can combine two rooms, maybe, or build a master bath here—they've got more space than Dean knows what to do with. Anyway, this room is squished between two others instead of facing out, it's only got one window. Dean figures that with Sam flinging weather around left and right, the best they can do is put as much wall between themselves and the elements as possible and hope it's strong enough to hold.

Dean helps Sam get ready for bed like he has for the last few nights, though he manages to resist the urge to hover and lets Sam try to do things on his own. He's pretty capable, even if he gets a little creepy when allowed to stare at one thing for too long. He can brush his teeth and wipe his own ass, which is more than Dean would be able to say for himself if he were in Sam's shoes.

"Like our new bathroom, Sammy?" Dean's sitting on the rim of their bathtub (they have an honest-to-god bathtub) watching Sam spit and rinse in the mirror. "I'm gonna make it much nicer than this, you just watch."

Sam dries his mouth with his wrist (there's a hand towel right within his reach, and Dean is kind of proud to see his brother finally acting like a real man) and turns to face Dean. "Dean," he says, voice all hushed and warm and it's amazing the amount of things he's managed to say in the last few days with just that one syllable.

Dean smiles. "Yeah, you're welcome. Don't start crying about it."

Sam rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively and leaving so Dean can have the bathroom for his own business. Dean doesn't ask Sam to stay, even though he'd really rather keep his brother in his sight right now. Sam is supposed to be the screwed up one, not him.

Sam is in bed by the time Dean is turning off the bathroom lights. Dean hesitates, suddenly realizing how much has changed and—Sam might not want Dean in his bed anymore. Dean doesn't want to make any assumptions, doesn't want to make Sam uncomfortable, but the thought of sleeping in some room down the hall makes him feel sick.

"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean says, whispering in case Sam is asleep already. Then he crosses in front of the bed, making for the door but walking slow enough to give Sam a chance to—

"Dean."

Dean turns to see Sam sitting up in bed, his face clearly upset. Outside, Dean can see the windows beginning to turn white with frost.

"Dean," Sam says again, stretching his arms out, his mouth pouting like a spoiled child.

Dean smiles, crawling under the covers on the empty side of the bed and pulling Sam into him until his brother's big back is pressed against his chest. They've been sharing motel rooms since Sam got back, but not a bed, not yet. The familiarity of this makes Dean's entire body relax, makes him finally start to trust this just a little bit. It feels right, lying down to sleep like this, right in a way sleeping at Lisa's never did and never was going to, no matter how hard they both tried.

Sam burrows into the mattress, tugging the comforter tighter around them as he settles. He's half naked under the blankets, the way he's liked sleeping pretty much since it started making Dean have all kinds of uncomfortable thoughts about him. Dean tries pressing closer to feel more of his skin, even though he's as close as he can get.

Dean knows how fucked up it is to find any happiness in this situation, but Sam is back, warm (too warm, like he always is when he's not dead), and all his. They have a house, and if Sam hasn't burnt it down and both of them with it by tomorrow, Dean is going to make it a home. It's going to be the kind of place Sam always dreamed of. The kind of place Sam wouldn't run away from, even if he had a choice.

It's the most Dean can ever remember wanting to survive until the morning.

Dean wakes up with Sam's hand stuffed up his shirt. It's not the first time he's woken up like this, though he certainly wasn't expecting it today, and he kind of wants to laugh, roll over on top of his pervy little brother and kiss him breathless.

At least until he sees the look on Sam's face. Sam's covered in tears, and Dean realizes his fingers aren't feeling around for fun. He's moving in some kind of pattern, tracing little squares right over Dean's heart.

Dean grabs Sam's wrist and holds it still. "Hey, Sam, what's wrong? What're you doing?"

Sam shakes his head, trying to pull his hand away.

"It’s okay, man. Come on." Dean swipes the pad of his thumb over Sam's cheeks. "Don't cry. I got you. No one's gonna hurt you out here."

For some reason, this makes Sam cry harder, and whatever Dean tries to do for him only makes it worse. Finally Dean asks if he should just leave and, frankly to his surprise, Sam nods. So Dean goes downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast, which just leads to the realization that there is no food in his and Sam's Malibu Dream House, and he either has to take Sam to the nearest store to get some or leave Sam home alone.

Dean doesn't even know where the nearest store is or how long of a drive it would be to get there. He runs a hand through his hair, slamming the fridge shut a little harder than he intends and cursing under his breath. Probably, they could have thought the food situation out a little better.

"Dean?"

Dean turns from making distressed faces at the closed refrigerator and sees Sam standing by the door. He looks fuzzy from sleep, his hair is sticking out at all angles and he's still squinting at the light pouring in through the windows. But he got here all on his own and even managed to remember to put a shirt on. It takes a lot of restraint for Dean not to run across the room and grab Sam into a hug and squeeze until his arms are sore.

"Hey, Sammy," he says instead. "Good morning."

Sam smiles and shuffles into the room, taking a seat at the table. He does all of this without his eyes leaving Dean's face once, and Dean isn't really sure what to make of the staring. His expression is blank, though, and through the window Dean sees mild weather. It's not the clearest day he's ever seen, but he's counting it as a blessing.

"You hungry?"

Sam nods.

"I was gonna make breakfast," Dean leaves his spot by the fridge to lean against the counter just across from where Sam is sitting, "but it looks like we forgot to do the grocery shopping."

No response. Sam blinks a few times, and that's about it.

"Was thinking of driving into town to get some things," he continues, almost just to fill the silence. Sam's not gonna respond, he's not even sure Sam's listening. He might as well be talking to himself, not that it would be the craziest thing he's done. "Don't know if you want to come."

Don't know if you should come is what Dean's really thinking. Because he can just imagine what will happen if they go and Sam gets upset by the line or by someone shoving past him or by something he wants being sold out. Sam could open a hole in the floor and swallow them all or cause a tornado that would wipe the whole town away without even meaning to.

But then he thinks of leaving Sam, of returning to find out his brother was burning while he was standing in some supermarket trying to remember which flavor of Poptarts Sam prefers. He can picture the bright orange flame, the way his heart will catch in his throat from three miles away when he first sees it, but he knows he'll deny it, dread it the entire rest of the drive home. And then he'll, what? Go back to Lisa? Throw himself in with the flames? They've had a home for less than 24 hours, Dean would really like to keep it standing just a little while longer.

"Do you?" Dean asks, scrutinizing his brother, hoping maybe a gleam in his eye or the way he breathes will give away what the right thing to do is. "Do you wanna stay here?"

Sam gapes at him, his mouth just open enough for him to look a little like an idiot. "Dean."

"You're fucking lousy company." Dean turns around as he says it, as if there's something in the sink or cabinet he can use to distract himself. That was bad, and Dean doesn't want to know if he hurt Sam's feelings.

He doesn't hear Sam stand, doesn't hear Sam do anything, but it's only a few quiet moments before he feels someone come up behind him, push him until his body is crushed against the counter and Sam's body is packed just as tightly against his back.

Sam's mouth finds Dean's ear, and he whispers _Dean, Dean, Dean_ until the word has lost all meaning and Dean would swear he's saying something complicated and perfectly intelligible. Dean decides he's taking Sam, because even Sam's worst company is better than anything else he's gonna find.

"I wanna leave within the hour," he tells Sam. "So if you're gonna shower, shower now."

Sam takes a few extra seconds to squeeze Dean just a little tighter, and then he relinquishes his grasp. By the time Dean turns around he's alone in the kitchen, and the water is already running in the bathroom when he reaches the top of the stairs. He heads into their room, pulling up his duffel and thinking that they should unpack later, since apparently they'll be staying long enough to memorize which drawer has shirts and which has pants and maybe Dean can even pull a set in from another room, let Sam have his own and go buy enough shit for Sam to fill it up since their lives no longer have to fit into a goddamn bag.

"Dean," he hears. Dean looks up, taken completely by surprise. He lost himself for a minute there, and now Sam is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest and a bitchy look on his face.

"Right," Dean says. "Getting ready to go."

Sam huffs, and Dean can just hear the _and you were rushing me_ in the way his shoulders get all straight. Dean waves a hand at him, dismissing his attitude, secretly wanting to fucking dance or something over how Sam the whole thing is.

Dean's gamble pays off. They make it in and out of Albertson's without any incident, stock up on all the things a house needs to support life: toiletries and food and all the blueberry Poptarts Sam is going to be able to eat in his life. Dean takes the chance to get to know the nearest town a little before heading back, because he's not sure when they'll get be able to come in again. They even stop and have lunch at a burger joint, and it's not until 4 pm, when Sam starts looking edgy and the clouds start drawing together, that Dean decides they should head back. He uses the milk going bad in the car as an excuse, which Sam seems to find very wise if the way he rests his hand on the back of Dean's neck as they walk is any indication, and Dean's choosing to believe it is.

They get home and Dean tries to unload the groceries, but Sam keeps swatting him away, because apparently the drawers at the bottom are only for vegetables and Dean is supposed to put cold cuts in the other drawer and the milk can't get pushed to the back. Dean can't do anything right according to his brother's anal retentive standards, so Dean defers to Sam's superior knowledge of all things domestic and lets him take care of the food if it means so much.

Instead, Dean stays true to his plan of moving in, which takes a grand total of 45 minutes. Dean's sure Sam will come up later and throw a fit about unfolded socks and Dean choosing the wrong things to hang in the closet, in fact he's looking forward to it. He finds their washing machine in a closet he'd been planning to pull linens out of and learns that there's a shelf over it for them to stash detergent on. Then he finds the actual linen closet and is surprised to learn that Bobby keeps the place stocked with plenty of clean sheets. Dean picks a dark green for their room, replacing the flowery pink that had been on the bed they used last night when they arrived and wonders if it would be a violation of everything manly to try buying matching curtains the next time they're in town.

Dean puts the rest of the crap they bought while they were in town away while Sam makes dinner, because it's a task that gives him the excuse to swing by the kitchen every few minutes and make sure everything is under control. Not that Sam has proved himself untrustworthy, but if he has an episode—and Dean has every reason to believe Sam's got those coming in spades—he would rather know if it's going to be while he's using a stove.

Sam does okay—their lasagna tastes like nuked assholes, but that's just how Sam cooks. Dean had forgotten that, the reminder is almost welcome, or at least he's pretty sure it will be once he's brushed it out of his mouth.

They spend the majority of the night on the couch watching what seems like the same episode of Law and Order eight times over. Dean holds Sam's feet in his lap and Sam says his name warmly every now and then, and, idiot that Dean is, he forgets for a few hours how fucked up everything is and just lets himself feel happy.

The next morning, Sam is doing the same thing with his fingers as the day before, only now he's tracing squares on Dean's bicep. He's not crying, not looking too upset, though his expression is a sort of dim resignation, and Dean can remember too well how scared Sam had been about it yesterday. He has no way of knowing what it means or how to deal with it; that's always been a nightmare for Dean. He can fix anything Sam tells him about, but when Sam hides he's useless. And now, Dean's not even sure if Sam is hiding things on purpose or if he really came back from Hell with just that one syllable: Dean.

Dean sits up, forcing Sam's hands to drop and distracting him away from whatever he's doing.

"I'm gonna make breakfast," he announces, and he looks down to where Sam's still lying on the bed. Sam doesn't look upset with him for moving, so he files the information away in case Sam gives him the same wakeup call tomorrow. "You coming with?"

Sam shakes his head, burrowing into the pillows. Dean thinks back on all his years of waking Sam up for school, seeing that stupidly adorable response from his brother, usually accompanied by the "five more minutes, Dean" that Sam doesn't supply now.

Dean nods and goes downstairs to brew coffee, knowing perfectly well that five minutes means 10. Dean's scrambling eggs and singing a pretty excellent rendition of Ramblin' On when Sam makes it in and grumbles an annoyed _Dean_ as he sits down at one of the spots Dean set up at the table.

Dean turns to give his brother a grin. "You gonna come in here and tell me the show ain't good enough when I'm making your prissy ass breakfast?"

Sam just pouts, and Dean stops singing, but he keeps whistling good and loud. Just so Sam won't think he won or anything. Can’t have that.

He sets the plate down in front of Sam as soon as it's done, but he snatches it away when Sam picks up his fork.

"Dean," Sam complains, reaching out for the eggs.

Dean stays firm, keeps the plate in his hand and sits next to Sam. He puts it on the table. "I'll let you have it if you say something."

Sam opens his mouth, and Dean stops him before he can try it. "Other than my name."

Sam's mouth closes at that and he glares at Dean. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows Dean is bullshitting. It's not like he's about to starve him.

He hesitates, is about to give up and slide the plate across to Sam, but then he gets another idea. A bad idea, maybe, but it's something he wants and if he shouldn't be asking for it—well, Sam has already demonstrated his ability to say no.

"I'll let you have it if you kiss me," Dean tries.

Sam's glare turns into wide, surprised eyes, but then he smiles so big and as he leans in, Dean can almost swear the sun is starting to shine in just a little brighter. He presses a kiss to Dean's lips, good strong pressure, and holds it there, right hand coming up to cup Dean's cheek. Then he pulls back, a business like expression on his face that turns into a very self-pleased smirk when he snatches his plate of eggs back to his side of the table right under Dean's nose.

"Yeah, take them, you little pain," Dean mutters, trying to play his part despite the overwhelming urge to just smile and smile and smile until his face gets stuck like that.

It's a pretty good morning after a pretty good night before and day before that, so Dean is ready for the trouble lurking around the corner. Don't get him wrong, he's appreciative that they got any break at all, but he's been living the Winchester life since he was four, and he's pretty much done falling for false senses of security.

Dean isn't surprised to hear the cry Sam lets out when he's in the shower, doesn't let himself get hung up on how unfair the whole thing is before he busts in and finds Sam bleeding all over the tiles on the wall that used to be white but are now turning crimson. Sam's got a cut on his forehead. That's good, that means the blood looks worse than it'll actually be, but the good news goes right down the drain with the blood when Dean realizes how it got there. Sam's hand is pressed flat against the tile and he tries to smack his head against the wall again but Dean catches him, pulling him back and forcing him to sit down in the tub as he washes the cut and turns the water off.

Sam isn't crying or anything; his face is back to that blank state, as if he wasn't just trying to break his head open.

"Goddammit, Sam, what the fuck are you doing?" he asks, not expecting an answer, which is good because he doesn't get one. Sam sits unmoving as Dean inspects him and pulls out rubbing alcohol to clean it. It's a small cut. Dean is more shaken by how it got there than anything. Sam had seemed so okay just half an hour ago when Dean had watched him wander upstairs.

Sam stares up at Dean with a glassy expression of terror fixed on him. His mouth starts moving, as if he's trying to say something, but at first it's just abrupt little sounds that get lost on the way to becoming actual words.

"What, Sammy?" Dean guides him up out of the tub, and Sam comes easily when he pulls him into his chest. "Sam, why would you do that?"

Sam shakes his head and pulls back and Dean can see how hard he's trying.

"Dean," he says. He starts something else, but then he stops. It's another half a minute before he regains his focus, looks Dean in the eye and starts over. "Dean."

"Yeah, I got that part." Dean holds his gaze, afraid if he breaks it Sam will give up on whatever he's trying so hard to explain, and if there's any chance in hell he can get an explanation for what just happened, Dean is not doing anything stupid to screw it up.

"I'm," Sam finally manages, speaking very, very slowly. 

"You're what, Sam? C'mon, it's okay."

He forms the next words deliberately, like the speech pattern is new to him, like he's learning English for the first time. In a way, maybe he is. Dean gets a shiver thinking of how long Sam was in Hell, who's to say they let him talk? "Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean frowns. "It's alright, Sam. You scared me. You can't do it again, alright? But it's okay, I forgive you."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, and again, "I'm sorry," with this pleading voice like Dean just isn't getting what he's saying and he really needs Dean to get it.

"Sorry for what?" Dean passes his fingers through Sam's wet hair and Sam closes his eyes, letting out a dull sob. "You can tell me. Whatever it is. Just tell me."

"I'm sorry." Sam leans into Dean's touch. "Dean."

"Shh, it's alright. Whatever it is, Sammy. It's okay. It doesn't matter. I forgive you."

Again, Sam shakes his head, and now he opens his eyes and takes Dean's hand between his own, pulling it away from himself and placing it on Dean's thigh. Dean tries to reach for him again, but Sam backs away this time, even though he'd been perfectly content to take comfort from Dean a few seconds ago. Dean finds this annoying, but he swallows that, because that's not really what Sam needs right now. Not that Sam is letting Dean give him what he needs right now.

Dean turns the water back on. The blood has all drained from the water, though there are still red marks on the tile. Dean averts his eyes and focuses on Sam instead. "You're finishing with a bath," he informs his brother. "And I'm sitting right here."

Dean is expecting Sam to give him some kind of complaint about it, about the fact that he's old enough to clean himself, which he has just demonstrated is not the case, but instead Sam nods.

"Hand me the shampoo," Dean tells him. "And put your hair under for a moment."

Sam obeys, lets Dean wash his hair and soap him down, even closes his eyes and seems to take some pleasure from it every now and then. When it's all done, Dean wraps him in a towel and dries his hair as much as he can before gently nudging Sam into the bedroom. He picks out a shirt and pajama pants and Sam puts them on obediently. After the excitement in the shower, Sam seems to have sunk into a sleepy complacency, so Dean leads him to bed and tucks him in.

"Dean." Sam reaches out for him once he's comfortable, and Dean lets his brother pull him into bed. He stays lying over the covers but relaxes so that one of his arms is cradling Sam's head and the rest of him is pressed to Sam's side.

"I'm sorry," Sam murmurs. He sounds like he's just a few seconds from falling asleep, which Dean thinks will be good for him.

"Don't be sorry," he says. He puts a finger under Sam's chin and makes Sam look up at him. "All I want—if you're really sorry, you gotta show me by not hurting yourself again, okay? Don't tell me, just don't you ever scare me like that again. You got me, Sam? You promise?"

Sam lets out a long breath but after a while he nods a few quick times, drawing closer to Dean.

"Good," Dean tells him. He presses a kiss to Sam's forehead, just over the Band-Aid he put there, even though it's not really necessary, because it made him feel the tiniest bit better about how powerless he is to help. "Good boy."

Sam's asleep before long, and Dean lies there, not able to sleep himself, more because of the shock than because it's only a little after noon and he's not really tired enough for a nap. It still feels nice to be here, to have Sam like this, mostly warm except for the wet hair soaking into his pillow. Man is Dean going to hear about that tomorrow. But still, Sam looks peaceful for the moment, almost content. Dean tries not to wonder about what nightmares are lurking underneath that deceitfully calm exterior.

Sam's hand is curled up on Dean's chest, a few fingers holding the fabric of his shirt so that he has to be careful disentangling Sam when he decides to get up and clean the blood out of the shower. After that Sam is still out for the count, so Dean decides it's a good time to make dinner. He doesn't want to leave Sam alone, but he really doesn't want to leave Sam alone while he's awake. They've got some of those canned soups in the pantry downstairs, so Dean makes Campbell's and brings it up to Sam.

Sam blinks awake, smiling when he sees Dean, as if he's completely forgotten the entire traumatic incident in the shower already.

"You hungry?" he asks, just for conversation, and Sam nods.

Dean pulls the wicker chair in the corner up to the bedside and spoon feeds Sam, like he used to do when Sam was a kid and sick.

After Sam finishes eating, Dean takes Sam's hand in his own. "We gotta get a TV in here," Dean says, trying to keep his tone light. "This room is boring as shit."

Sam laughs.

"Wanna go down? See if anything exciting is on?"

Sam shakes his head 'no,' and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't relieved. Okay, he's a clingy paranoid freak, but he doesn't want Sam on stairs or anywhere harder to supervise than a bed.

He doesn't even know what the hell overtakes him as he says, "Wanna hear a story?" Maybe it's how young and old Sam looks at the same time as he lies there in bed with his eyes fixed on Dean.

Dean is expecting to get laughed at, but instead Sam nods. Dean thinks back on when Sam really was a kid, tries to remember the stories he used to tell Sam to get him to sleep. There'd been one book—Dean had stolen it from a public library in Michigan because Sam had loved it so much. It was the first thing he ever stole. He'd spent months convinced the police would batter down the door any day and take him away, but Sam had loved it.

He chuckles at the memory, about to say, _Hey, Sam, remember The Three Little Wolves and The Big Bad Pig_ when he remembers that in the end of that, everyone had lived and the bad guy had changed for the better and no one had to get hunted or eaten. Sam had loved that about it, but that's not how things go in the real world. Sam knows that by now. Dean thinks he'll take the original over that any day. All the pigs die except the little brother. The little brother lives because he's the smartest and it's fair, even if it isn't happy.

"Once upon a time," Dean says, "there were three little pigs—"

"Dean!" Sam says.

Dean's chest feels like caving in. Sam sounds exactly like he did when he was little, when Dean would start to tell the story about the wolves and Sam would cry out his name all exasperated like that and tell him that's not how the story goes, they're supposed to be pigs, and he would laugh and roll on his bed like the reversal was the greatest damn thing he'd ever heard. It had seemed at the time like that was never going to get old, and now when Sam says _Dean_ Dean knows what he means is _you're telling the story wrong._

"Three little wolves," he corrects.

Sam smiles and nods and Dean continues until Sam's face is turned toward his and his eyes are half-shut and the story is over. Then he climbs into bed behind Sam and tells his brother the next thing that pops into his head until they're both yawning through the happily ever afters.

Dean has a dream that night. He's fuzzy on the details, but it's not big on plot anyway. There's a hot, tight mouth around his dick, and it's nice. He hasn't gotten laid since leaving Lisa's, isn't sure if or when Sam'll be up for sex again, and certainly isn't about to ask when Sam can hardly eat without being spoon fed. So a dream is as good as it's gonna get, and Dean rides it, enthusiastic as he shifts his hips, waiting to get a view of whose mouth it is: Angelina or Britney or that chick from the beer commercial last Super Bowl.

The pressure builds and builds, until Dean startles awake, too close to coming to stay unconscious. It takes nearly a minute to realize through the fog of sleep and pleasure that he still feels that mouth working at him, and he looks down to find Sam's eyes fixed on his as he pulls up, tongue playing with the slit of Dean's dick before swallowing him again.

"Sam?" he asks, and Sam answers with a long, drawn out pull, cheeks going full as he drags his lips down the shaft of Dean's cock.

Sam moans, low and quiet as he teases Dean, and the sound cuts right through his defenses. He should make Sam stop, he knows. Sam's in no condition to be doing anything like this. But Sam's gaze on his is unblinking, and Dean can hardly remember a time before he was addicted to that dirty gleam in his little brother's eyes. Seeing it now makes him realize that he'd never expected Sam to look at him like this again.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean whispers, putting a hand on the back of Sam's head, not to push him, just to feel the tangle of hair. "So good. Jesus."

Sam reaches up, big hand wrapping around the base of Dean's dick and stroking him as he keeps sucking at the head. Dean bites his lip to keep his grin down, but his doubts dissolve a little, and he lets himself relax even more into Sam. The way he's stroking, pairing it with the rhythm he's got going as he sucks Dean—there's no question that Sam knows exactly what he's doing. Dean taught him to suck cock just like that, back when Sam was a fumbling virgin.

It's a matter of minutes and Dean can't help it: his hips snap up and he pours come right down his brother's throat, nothing but the curl of his fingers in Sam's hair to warn for what's coming.

Sam takes it all, crawls up Dean's body and kisses him, and Dean can taste the salty residue. He shakes his head. "There's my horndog little brother."

He slips his hand onto the cut of his brother's hips, thumbs tracing the muscle as he begins to push Sam's boxers down. "Gonna let me return the favor?"

Sam catches Dean's wrist just as he closes it around Sam's dick, and he can feel Sam half-hard already. But Sam holds him, answers Dean's questioning look with a shake of his head as he pushes Dean's hand up and away. Dean wants to argue—Sam was never one to give without wanting something in return—but Sam hasn't looked this conscious, this sure about anything, since the seconds before he fell into the cage.

"Not in the mood?" Dean tries. Sam bites his lip and shrugs. "I'll owe you one."

Sam makes a sad face, so Dean turns away, not really wanting to know what about that is so upsetting. Outside, the sun is shining bright, like it's the middle of the day, and Dean nearly panics, thinking he slept past noon. Then he sees the clock on the night table reads 3:47 a.m., and he laughs.

"Sam, why's it sunny in the middle of the night?"

Sam catches Dean's eye, licks his lips slow and deliberate, and gives Dean a dirty smile. It's easy enough for Dean to translate. _You taste really good._

Probably, Dean should be cross about that, but he can't help thinking—sunlight means Sam was happy. It doesn't matter if it happened in the middle of the night or if it's only lasted a few minutes, he's just glad it happened at all.

He shakes his head as he drags Sam down against his chest. "Mind turning the sun off before people start freaking out? I'd like to sleep a few more hours, unless you have any more bright ideas, you little pervert."

Sam shrugs, and outside the window, it dims to a starry, cloudless night almost immediately. It's weird, Sam having that kind of power, but Dean's sun rising and setting with Sam is nothing new.

Sam is a rollercoaster, and not in a fun way. Some days he's sunshine and blowjobs at four in the morning; then there are days when Dean wakes up in the middle of the night and thinks it's dawn until he realizes Sam's not in bed with him, and the steady orange glow he can just hardly see through the window isn't the sun starting to rise. It's a ring of fire all the way around the goddamn house.

Dean finds Sam outside, standing dangerously close to the line of fire. Not that it matters much where he's standing—if he doesn't pull it together and put the blaze out soon, it'll take the house and both of them along with it. 

"Sammy," he says.

Sam looks over, confused, as if he doesn't realize where he is or what Dean's doing there. He doesn't stay distracted long, his whole body turning back to the fire after a quick glance in Dean's direction. Fuck, he needs to get through to Sam.

"Sam," he repeats, tugging his brother's arm.

This time Sam doesn't even react to him. He just keeps staring at the fire, his eyes glazed, the orange glow flickering over his features. It's just enough light for Dean to read his expression. He knows what Sam's thinking. All in all, it's not a horrible idea.

His stomach drops to his feet. "If you do it, Sammy, I'm going with you."

Sam looks at him again, his eyebrows drawn together. He looks angry and hurt, like a big baby, and it would be endearing under any other circumstances.

"I mean it," Dean tells him, reaching up to touch Sam's face. "I'm done living without you. If you go in, I'm going too."

It's not that Sam doesn't believe him, Dean can tell he does. But he still looks tempted. He's still contemplating going in—letting Dean die if it means getting out.

And a part of Dean is so worn down that he's silently cheering Sam on. Go on. Go on. They can't stand this much longer, not either of them. They'll be together in the next life. Maybe Sam won't remember he's broken in Heaven. Maybe his grace won’t be such a big problem. Maybe Bobby was right and Dean should have put an end to this when Sam first came back, for Sammy's sake if no one else's.

But if they're going, why does it have to be like this? Like Mom and Jessica and all those years in Hell. Why fire? Sam's burned enough, and Dean can't help feeling like it would be letting Lucifer win.

"Dean," Sam says after an impossibly long wait, and then he turns and hides his face in Dean's shoulder. "Dean."

Dean gets a hand in Sam's hair, stroking it. He knows this means Sam's chosen to live. He knows from the crying that Sam's not particularly happy about it.

"You remember the summer we spent in Arizona?" he asks softly.

Sam nods, still clinging to him.

"It was hot that summer, huh? Hotter than—" He's about to say Hell, but he catches himself and laughs uncomfortably. "Hotter than this."

Sam looks up at the fire, then at Dean, like he's not convinced.

"Dad got us that room at the motel with the pool, you remember that? After we begged and begged for a way to keep cool. No A/C in that dump, but the pool was so awesome it didn't seem to matter."

Dean takes Sam's hand and squeezes. "You remember how good that water felt? Remember what a relief it was after sleeping in that cramped little room." 

Sam nods.

"I need you to focus on that for me, okay? I need you to cool this down, or the fire's gonna take everything we've got."

Sam shakes his head, a sorry expression on his face that Dean knows means he thinks he can't do it. Well, fuck that. Sam can do anything.

"I got you a water gun," Dean tells him in a whisper. "And I immediately regretted it. You chased me around everywhere with that damn thing."

Sam laughs.

Dean smiles, feeling a little encouraged, and passes a hand over the sweaty hair sticking to Sam's temple. "You've got a water gun, Sammy. I know you know how to use it."

Sam closes his eyes and concentrates for a long time, and Dean thinks, there's no way. This is it. No storm can roll in fast enough to put this fire out.

But Sam's does. After about half a minute, the sky opens up and the water beats down on them, drenching them almost instantly. It's so heavy it stomps out the fire, and Dean pulls Sam in, kisses him in the hot rain.

For the three days following the fire incident, Sam seems to be improving. He proved to himself and to Dean that he can get a grip on the weather when he focuses, so it's mild enough that Dean takes him for a long walk every afternoon after lunch. Sam always liked long walks, and even if the wide open fields out behind their house are as dull as dishwater, it beats the hell out of staying inside all the time.

He's kidding himself, even Dean knows that deep down. Sam still isn't talking; he still wakes Dean up every day tracing weird little patterns on Dean's chest and crying; there's a chance he could shower alone without trying to maim himself, but Dean isn't risking it.

Dean isn't surprised the night he wakes up because a clash of thunder strikes so near it shakes the house, just worn down and disappointed and about ready to give up. The rain outside is heavy, Dean can tell from the sounds of the splatters on the windows. Sam managed to fool him for three mild days, but now that he's lost his grip, the storm is making up for lost time.

Sam's still sleeping against his chest, murmuring nonsense. Dean wakes him with a gentle shake, a kiss to the top of his head.

"Hey Sammy, come on," he says, voice rough from sleep. "It's just a dream."

Sam blinks his eyes open and looks at Dean for a long moment before he crawls up the bed and kisses Dean hard.

Dean laughs as he pushes Sam back. "Hey, calm down there, tiger. You alright?"

Apparently, Sam's not really in the talking mood. He moves down again, claiming Dean's mouth and going deep with a lick of his tongue, and before Dean can really think to stop him, Sam's hand has snaked down, into his boxers, and he's stroking Dean's soft cock. It doesn't stay soft for long.

Dean turns his face away, even as he's shifting his hips up, because—Jesus—it's not that he'd forgotten how big Sam's hands were or how damn clever Sam works them. It's just a little better when the callused palm has a nice, firm grip on him than it is when he's closing his eyes and trying to remember.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean moans, but he tries to stay on topic. "You can't just distract—ah."

Sam laughs and keeps jerking him, moving his face until his lips find Dean's again, and Dean can't keep turning away, he just can't. He missed Sam so much. He still does, in a way. But when Sam's fucking him with tongue and fist and he still makes the sounds he always has, it's so easy to pretend Sam is his regular self and this is right—or whatever passes for right between them.

He's so close to melting into Sam's wrist when Sam turns his face and whispers Dean's name, and that's it. Dean loses it, come coating Sam's fingers as he twists at the head, gathering it up and using the slick as lube as he keeps working Dean through everything, until his cock goes soft in Sam's grasp.

It feels like the first time all over again, like Sam's his hormonal baby brother and Dean can't stop thinking _what am I doing what am I doing how am I letting this happen_ as Sam pulls his hand to his lips and licks Dean off his fingers. Sam might not really want this. He's in no state to be doing this, and Dean damn well knows it. He feels dirty and guilty and he knows it should be wrong wrong wrong, but instead of stopping he buries his face in his brother's neck, breathes in deep and closes his eyes as he kisses Sam's shoulder blade.

"Let me," Dean pleads, but before he can even reach down, Sam moves fast, pinning his wrists to the bed and shaking his head roughly.

Dean can feel Sam's hard cock pressed against his thigh, but he's not rutting against Dean for relief like he used to, not touching himself, holding Dean so he can't take care of him, either. He struggles against the hold, and Sam lets him go, but he shakes his head when Dean slowly tries to gauge if he wants Dean to help him finish.

"Sam, if you don't want me to touch you, how can I be sure you want—?" Dean stops and rubs his hand over his mouth, afraid that if he says what he's thinking that'll make it true. "Did they make you do this in the cage? You don't have to anymore, Sammy. You don't have to with me."

Sam pulls back, a sober expression on his face. He stares at the headboard just above Dean's head for a long time, and Dean can tell from the rolls of thunder shaking the house that he's trying to say something.

"Want," Sam finally manages. Dean's chest leaps, because that's more than he's managed since he started apologizing, and Dean knows how hard Sam is fighting, that every clear thought gets slammed by lightning stronger than what's hitting the ground outside. It seems like a small victory, but it's not, and he's torn between wanting to believe Sam can fight harder, can find his way to Dean through all that electricity, and not wanting to push Sam too far.

Sam closes his mouth and licks his lips and then he scrunches up his face, like he's trying so damn hard to focus through the grace and find another word. But in the end, all he comes up with is a frustrated grunt, hand smacking at his forehead as if that'll help him remember. "Dean, I want. Dean."

"Shh," Dean whispers, sitting up and sliding his hand along his brother's cheek, making Sam look up at him. "It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to say anything. Just show me what you want."

"I'm sorry," is Sam's reply. He bows his head. "Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean shakes his head as he grabs Sam's face and forces eye contact. "You keep apologizing to me, I'm gonna make you sorry."

It's all he's got to hold them together at this point: his big brother best, and there's nothing for it but to hope Sam will take it for what it is and not as a threat. From the way Sam bites down on his lip, a barely there smile at the corners of his mouth, he thinks Sam does.

Sam brings his hand up to the back of Dean's neck and strokes his fingers light against the hair, like he did when Dean was fresh back from Hell and couldn't sleep. The fact that it's Sam comforting Dean even now makes his whole body feel puny and useless and weak, because it's Sam that needs to be cared for right now, it's Sam that has a right to fall apart, and it's Dean's job to fix him. But Sam leans in to kiss him before lying down with his face pressed to Dean's chest, his fingers still teasing that spot idly, and Dean can't help it, the touch makes something in him give, makes him relax even if he wants to stay vigilant.

"I'm trying so hard," Sam says quietly after they've been silent for almost ten minutes. Dean tries not to wonder if it took all that time just to push those words together. "You don't know how much it hurts, Dean."

"I'll make it go away," Dean promises, the words all breaking up, because doing that will probably mean killing Sam, and he can't pretend anymore that he's doing Sam a favor by fighting it. "I'm gonna make it go away."

The next morning, it's shaking that knocks Dean awake. He thinks it's an earthquake, but when he opens his eyes, it's only him and the bed and his little brother's body that are being affected. Sam's trembling is more violent than the room around them, but Dean watches the floorboards, nervous they'll split and drop him and Sam right through, that Sam will open a hole to Hell and they'll both get sucked back down.

Somehow, Sam is sleeping through whatever fit he's having. Dean grabs him and tries to shake him awake before he realizes what a stupid idea that is. He slaps Sam instead, starts yelling Sam's name, but nothing brings Sam around until Dean starts to hear wood splintering beneath them. Then Sam sits up, his eyes flying open and a scream escaping that turns Dean's blood to ice. It seems to go on for hours, and everything stops once the sound dies from Sam's lips. All that's left in the aftermath is a piercing silence and stillness and a crack in the floor.

Dean knows another morning like that and the house will give. Sam will rend the foundation in half, the world in half, himself in half. These episodes won't stop, and the next time Sam starts a fire in the middle of the night, it might be around their bed. It might finally put an end to them.

He grabs Sam into his arms and tries to soothe his brother, but Sam is calm now, as if nothing ever happened. That scares Dean more than if he were still agitated, and he whispers that it'll be alright, trying to comfort himself more than Sam.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam finally says.

It's completely inappropriate, but that shocks a laugh out of Dean. Sam looks at him like he's crazy—like he's the one that just set off fault lines that don't exist. He's still got his arms wrapped around Sam, but he eases up, letting Sam slump against his chest.

His laugh sounds ugly in his ears, but he keeps on laughing at himself and he can't make it stop. Can't make anything stop. Can't hold Sam together no matter how hard he tries. Sam smiles, clearly lost, but glad to see Dean happy; Dean can't believe his brother, who used to know him too damn well, can't read the manic loss of control that's causing his hysteria.

Castiel doesn't answer his call for hours. By the time he shows up, Sam has caused a blizzard, snow piling up four feet high outside their window, even though it's late summer and just a few hours ago they were buried in wildfires instead of ice. Sam's powers seem to be slipping farther out of his control the more he snaps into himself.

"Nice weather we're having," Castiel says when he shows up, no warning but the batting of wings.

Dean's ready for him, though. He's been waiting to hear that telling sound all day. "When did you get funny?"

"A side-effect of not being around you for a few months," Castiel replies blandly, and that makes Dean laugh, even as it's a little sad. Cas looks worn down and defeated, more disheveled than usual, with bags under his eyes, even though he knows the angel doesn't need to sleep. Dean kinda misses the Cas that didn't need jokes to hold himself together.

He doesn't have to ask how the war in Heaven's going, so he cuts right to the chase. "I think you gotta take Sam's grace."

Castiel makes a face like he's not surprised and not sure whether to be disappointed or ecstatic, either. "I will admit, a part of me was hoping that was what you called me down here for."

"Real nice, Cas," Dean says. "Thanks for pulling for us."

"Of course I want your brother to be okay. But I have my own concerns now, Dean. My other options…you wouldn't have liked them any better."

Dean shrugs. He's not sure he would have even known what Cas did to win the war if it wasn't about Sam's grace. Castiel's war is not his priority right now, same as Sam isn't Cas's. It's weird, after working together to take down Lucifer, to realize the angel has goals of his own and they don't match up with Dean's. But the good news is, right now they both want the same thing: Dean needs that grace out of Sam and Cas needs that grace.

"Where is he?" Cas asks, all business.

Dean hesitates before leading him upstairs. "What do you think the chances are it won't kill him?"

"Not good," Castiel says flatly. "I'm of the opinion that dying would be the best possible result for your brother."

"That's real comforting." Dean pats the angel on the shoulder. "Thanks, Cas."

"I'm sorry. I always forget to lie," Cas says, making a face Dean thinks is supposed to express his humbled apologies, but actually it just makes him look constipated. It would be pretty amusing, given other circumstances.

As is, Dean doesn't have the energy to laugh at him. He just turns and beckons for Cas to follow him to the kitchen. Sam is sitting at the table, staring at the plain white surface, but he looks up when Dean and Castiel walk in.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says. "Look who came to visit."

Sam looks at Castiel and gives him a half-smile, which Castiel manages to return. He takes the seat next to Sam and doesn't waste any time. "You know why I'm here, don't you, Sam?"

To Dean's surprise, Sam nods. Castiel puts his hands in his lap. "I want you to know—I think this is going to help a lot of people."

Sam shrugs and holds his hands out to Castiel, no hesitation. Dean's watching from the doorway, chewing his nail because he can't bear to watch but he can't tear his eyes away.

When Cas takes Sam's hands, his brother's veins begin to glow, bright blue through his skin. Dean watches the grace as it travels through him, slowly pouring into Castiel, where it glows the same blue at his fingertips before being absorbed and disappearing. It takes half a minute or less to leave Sam broken and defenseless, clutching his head like it's about to split in half.

Castiel stands up, his eyes glowing almost white, and when he turns to look at Dean, there's something cold in his expression that Dean doesn't want to recognize.

"I am strong enough to kill Raphael now," Castiel says. He smiles, and it sends a chill down Dean's spine. "I don't need purgatory, or Crowley. Your brother's sacrifice will fix Heaven."

Dean doesn't understand half of what he's saying and couldn't care less about the rest of it. "Can you check him? Can you tell me how bad it is?"

"You will know very soon what condition he is in." Castiel pauses to send one last look in Sam's direction. He sounds softer when he says, "Sam has done more than we can ask of most angels, let alone a human. Take that as comfort, Dean. He will be honored when he comes to my domain."

Dean's not just going to roll over and let Sam die, and he tries to tell Castiel as much, but there's a short gust of wind and then the same old flapping sound. Dean is left alone in the kitchen with Sam, who still hasn't said a word.

He moves forward tentatively, afraid to spook Sam, and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder only after Sam meets his eyes.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" Dean asks.

Sam swallows hard, looks at Dean's hand, and reaches up to cover it with his own palm. "Honestly? No. I don't think I am."

"You gotta tell me what's up if I'm gonna help you," Dean finally says.

Sam's hands are trembling as he pours himself another three fingers of whiskey. They've been sitting here, mostly silent, for half an hour since Castiel left.

"It might be too late for that." Sam takes a long drink, but he's a little steadier when he puts his drink down, keeps his eyes on the glass as he pushes it around. He's hardly looked at Dean. "Not that I expect you to accept that."

He's damn right Dean's not gonna accept it. "Tell me what's wrong, Sam. What hurts? What—?"

"Everything," Sam answers. "My body feels like the skin's still being flayed off of it. My muscles can hardly hold me up in this chair, they're all cramping from the memory of dangling at the wrong angle. My head's—not right."

Sam shakes his head and takes another longer sip. "I can hardly think through the pain. Which—" He laughs. "Can't decide if it's better or worse than the grace. Couldn't think through that at all. Couldn't remember Hell all that much, either."

"Maybe we can get it back," Dean tries.

"We can't," Sam answers. "I don't want to." He licks the whiskey off his lips and finally looks up at Dean. "But I can't do this for long. I—you should know that I'm okay with that."

"Sam, don't—"

"No, Dean. Don't you. You've done what you can. There's a point where you're gonna have to let—I have things I need to tell you. I have to do it now, okay? You won't like it, but I have to do it now."

"Give it some time, Sammy," Dean tells him. "You should relax now. Sleep maybe, take it easy. It's not like I was forthcoming the moment I got back from—"

"I don't have the time you did, Dean." Sam wipes his hands over his face, and he looks a thousand years old. "If I fall asleep, I don't think he'll let me wake up."

"He who?" Dean asks, though he pretty much anticipates the answer.

"Lucifer," Sam says. "He's leaning against the corner by the fridge over there."

Dean looks up. "There's no—"

"I know," Sam interrupts. "That doesn’t make him less real to me."

"You can ignore him." Dean sits up, grabbing Sam's hand. "I can distract you."

Sam shakes Dean away and empties his whiskey. "It's not gonna work like that."

"How do you know? You only just—"

"I tortured you," Sam says quickly.

Dean's caught off guard by that. He drops his sentence and gives Sam a confused look, and Sam seems glad to have shut him up.

"In Hell. I tortured you. All the time." He looks away again. "They made me, at first. I tried so hard to say no, but they hurt me and hurt me and finally I did. And I kept on doing it. I got good at it. I started to like it. Fuck, I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so so sorry."

"Is that what you've been apologizing for?"

Sam nods, his eyes getting wet but not quite letting the tears fall. "I'd cut you up. They made me count how much of you I could take off before you died. And I got good at it, Dean," Dean watches Sam's fingers on the tabletop as they start tracing the same little patterns he's been working out on Dean's chest every morning, "I'd cut off so many little squares of you. Hundreds. Thousands. And somehow you wouldn't die. You would just keep screaming and begging me to stop and I—I wouldn't."

"Is that why—?" Dean points out the way Sam's fingers are moving, and Sam looks down like he's only just realized he's doing it.

"Had to remind myself. Couldn't let myself forget before I told you. It was hard to remember anything through that grace, but I couldn't let myself forget that. But now you know. Now you know exactly who I am and you don't have to miss me when I…"

"Sam, it wasn't real."

The laugh Sam lets out is colder than the ice still frosting over their windows. "It was real to me."

It makes Dean queasy that they did that to Sam, but he can't be mad at his brother. Not when he knows all too well what it's like down there. "You don't have to tell me, Sam. I don't care—it wasn't really me. I tortured real people, and you told me it didn't count. So what you did? It definitely doesn't. C'mon, you've got enough to worry about without letting this sit on you."

"I needed to tell you," Sam says, and he finally lets himself start crying. "Before I—I needed you to know I don't deserve a single thing you've done for me. Since I got back. Before that." He shakes his head, and Dean stands up, circling around the table and grabbing Sam into his arms. "I can't believe the things I did to you. To _you_. You never would have—"

"We don't know that," Dean replies. "They never did that to me. But Sam, I probably would have hurt you. I'd've done anything to make the torturing stop down there, and I can't imagine my demons had half the strength or creativity that Lucifer does."

"I don't deserve to be saved anymore, okay Dean? I don’t want to be." Sam frowns, pushing Dean back down into a chair. "I know you feel like you have to—but you don't. You don't owe me anything. When I—"

"So you'll listen to Lucifer, but you won't listen to me?" Sam looks up at him sharply, but Dean doesn't relent. "I'm telling you it don't matter. I'm telling you what you did on Earth means more than what you did down there. And even if it didn't, I'm not gonna lose you if I can help it. That's not some obligation I'm under. That's not some crap Dad put on me. I don't want to be alive if you're not. I don't want to, and you don't just get to decide you're gonna die and leave me."

"I'm not deciding anything," Sam tells him. "Dean, I couldn't feel a damn thing with that grace, and you saw how fucked up I was. People weren't built to work the way I'm making my body work just by breathing. I'm going to die. It's going to happen."

Dean shakes his head, but Sam takes his hand and squeezes it, giving him a weak smile. "I know this conversation's sucked as far as last ones go. But I had to get it off my chest, okay? And I'm glad I got to talk to you. I hated not knowing how to talk to you."

"Yeah," Dean admits. "Me too." He clears his throat. "But you knew. What you were doing…when you…?"

Sam laughs. "I put your dick in my mouth because I wanted it there, if that's what you're asking."

Dean's face is burning, but he nods. "Just wanted to be sure it wasn't because…if they…did that to you."

"Rape," Sam says, and Dean flinches, but Sam doesn't. "Not saying it won't change that it happened."

That's a million times worse in Dean's mind than Sam confessing that he hurt him. "Fuck, Sammy."

Sam looks down at his hands. "What do you want me to say? That it's okay? I'll say it."

"It won't be true."

"No, it won't be true." Sam pauses for a while, then shrugs. "The memories would be enough to kill me if the pain doesn't."

"Sammy."

Sam closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You thought I didn't want you."

"You wouldn't let me make you feel good," Dean replies. "You couldn't talk, what was I supposed to think?"

"Dean, even if I live through this. If I wake up tomorrow and I'm miraculously healed—even then, I never want you to touch me again."

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it when he sees Sam has more to say.

"You don't know what it feels like to have them inside of you. As a vessel and when they fuck you—it's not that different. Like a comet, that's what Cas's vessel said, right? With Lucifer, it was like a hurricane inside. All this destruction and pain swirling around and then—calm. Pleasure. Better than anything I'd ever felt. Not better than anything in Hell, Dean. Better than anything. Better than anything I'll ever feel again. That was the worst thing about it. It felt so good. And I spent so much of those hundreds of years down there in pain that I—I couldn't help myself sometimes. I begged for it. It hurt, it was like being torn into pieces and I hated it, but it was the only good thing I could ever remember feeling. Nothing—nothing is ever going to compare to that. Nothing is going to feel that good again. Not…not even you, Dean. And I don't want it to. I just want to forget I even have a dick. That's why I wouldn't let you touch me."

He wants to beg Sam to stop, because he doesn't want to hear. Doesn't want to know that Lucifer gave Sam something Dean couldn't. "So there's nothing I can do to make you feel better?" Dean says. "I'm not enough anymore."

Sam rubs his thumb over Dean's knuckles to get his attention, and he gives Dean a faint smile. "Making you feel good still gives me pleasure. They made me forget, Dean, how fucking beautiful you look when you come. They made me fall in love with the sound of you crying instead. But that first night, when I got you off—that's the best I've felt since I got back. That's why I touched you, it wasn't because I was acting out something they made me do in the cage. And I know—I know that's not enough. I can give you my mouth and my hands but I can't fuck you and I don't want you fucking me. You can find other people. I just want to be able to make you feel good every now and then. If I live. Just let me do that, and I'll be as close to happy as he'll let me."

"He's not gonna let you anything," Dean snaps. He looks around the room, even though he knows he won't actually see Lucifer wherever Sam thinks he is. "We're gonna find a way to keep you alive, Sam, and I'm gonna kill him myself."

"How're you gonna do that?" Sam asks with a laugh. "He's in my head, Dean, he's not going anywhere."

Surprisingly enough, that actually gives Dean an idea.

Castiel comes almost immediately when Dean summons him this time. He's not glowing anymore, and he doesn't look as creepy, which is a relief.

"That didn't last very long at all, did it?" Castiel asks.

Dean looks him over with even more scrutiny and nearly laughs when he realizes what about Cas is so different. "You look cheery."

"My war is over," Castiel replies. His tone becomes more sober. "There was a battle. It was—I guess the important thing is that I won."

"You lost grace?"

Cas nods. "I am still somewhat stronger than my usual level, but yes, I am not on the brink of becoming God as I was when last you saw me."

"Sorry to hear that," Dean replies.

"No, you are not," Castiel replies. "I don't think I am, either."

Dean bites his lip. "Listen, Cas. Since you're still strong enough to—"

"I can’t heal Sam, Dean," Castiel tells him sadly. "I know it's hard to believe from the way I left here, but if I could have done it then, I would have."

"I don't need you to heal him," Dean says. "I just need you to get me in his head."

"What?"

"He's asleep right now. I don't have time to go looking for dream root. He said he doesn't think he's gonna wake up, but that's because he's letting Lucifer convince him he's still in pain. I just need him to stop letting Lucifer call the shots."

"And you intend to do that by…walking in his dream?"

"Lucifer's in his head. So if I can convince him in his head that Lucifer's not real, he won't die and he won't wake up in pain, right?"

"I won't waste my breath pointing out that if the Devil kills you inside of Sam's dream, you will die as well as Sam. I figure you've given that half a second's thought and dismissed it as irrelevant." Dean shrugs, and Cas sighs. "How do you intend to convince him Lucifer is not real?"

"I'll figure it out," Dean says. "He needs me. Look, are you gonna help me or not?"

"I'll do anything I can," Castiel says.

Five minutes later, Dean is lying down on the bed, squeezing his arm around Sam's middle, even though Sam's been out cold for fourteen hours and Dean knows he can’t feel this. If he's gonna die—if they’re both gonna die—he can't think of a better way to go than with his body wrapped around his brother.

"Alright, Cas. I'm—"

He thinks he feels the touch, but before he can be sure, he's been transported. He hears the crunch of leaves under his feet and looks around at a dark forest as he finishes his sentence. "—ready."

Sam is nowhere to be found, and neither is Lucifer, for that matter. But Dean looks down and finds that he's got a .45 Glock in his hand, a good, familiar weight, and there's something tugging him forward, so he follows the urge, knowing it must lead to Sam.

Wherever Castiel dropped him in Sam's head, he's at the edge of the forest, and he clears the last line of trees within what feels like twenty minutes of walking. He laughs when he sees what waits outside the forest, because, well. He can’t decide if he's surprised or not.

There's a valley with lush green rolling hills, a bright blue stream sparkling as the sun falls on it. The valley looks about a mile wide, and at the other end of it there's a castle, big and imposing, casting shadows, but looking nonetheless like something out of Disney Land. It's a beautiful fairytale world inside Sam's head, and if everything goes according to plan, Dean is never going to let Sam hear the end of this.

He doesn't waste much time taking in the sights. A mile is farther than he'd like to have between him and Sam, and there's no telling what he'll have to go through once he gets to the castle to actually find his brother. He starts walking.

With the way dream time passes, it feels like a minute and a year, simultaneously too fast and too long, before Dean reaches the castle. It's not as easy as just walking in, of course. There are thick, thorny plants all the way around, and Dean can't see a dragon, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. He doesn't hesitate before heading straight into the bramble, wishing now that the dream had given him a nice, big sword instead of a gun. There's only so much that shooting will do against a giant, spiky plant.

It feels like he got into a fight with a mutant porcupine by the time he gets outs, and his body is weak and tired, probably more from the blood loss caused by the scrapes all across his body than the exertion of fighting his way through. It doesn't matter. As long as he lives, he'll wake up without injury. Hell, even if he dies, he just needs to hold out long enough to get into that tower and clean Lucifer out of Sam's mind.

The door to the castle isn't chained or locked, and Dean has no problem pushing it open. It creaks, cobwebs being ripped apart as it opens, but nothing tries to stop him.

Inside, the castle is dark, except for the occasional ray of sunshine on the floor, filtering in through stained glass windows. Dean doesn't look at the images depicted on them, not wanting to know if there's a point at which the unnervingly inviting fairytale starts to turn into the nightmare Dean knows this is.

He doesn't look around the castle for anyone else. If this is following the narrative Dean thinks it is, Sam is locked away at the top of some tower, and that's where Dean needs to be. Still, he walks lightly, trying not to upset the rats that run by his feet occasionally. If there's someone here, Dean needs to go undetected as long as possible.

Like everything else so far, finding the stairway to the tower is a touch too easy. Climbing to the top, however, is not. He loses count around stair 250, and they seem to keep stretching on three times longer after he stops keeping track. His thighs burn, his body already worn down by the cuts he got from the bushes. It shouldn't be possible to feel this tired in a dream, but he can't stop to rest, not even when he's sure his body won't let him take another step. Sam was here for hours and hours before Dean came. If it's not too late already, Dean won't risk letting it be.

Finally, he reaches the top. The door is locked, but Dean laughs, glad his stupid gun finally comes in handy. He shoots off the padlock without hesitation and storms in to find more-or-less exactly what he expected.

The room is beautiful. Maybe more beautiful than the one Zachariah had trapped him in, and if Dean didn't learn from that incident that horrible things can happen in a nice setting same as in a shithole, this teaches him. He thinks it makes it uglier somehow, the fairytale setting: extravagant tapestries hanging around the windows, sunshine coming in bright and illuminating the gold in the walls, the detailing on the embroidery covering the blankets on the bed, Sam lying there, looking like he's in a peaceful sleep.

Dean rushes to his side and kneels by the bed, immediately taking Sam in his arms. He pauses for a moment, looking at Sam's sleeping face, the parted lips. He's not breathing. But that's okay, right? That's how this goes.

"Sammy, if this works, I swear to god, man," Dean mutters before hauling the body in and pressing his mouth against Sam's.

He pulls back after the kiss, gently resting Sam back against the pillow, waiting for him to wake up.

That's how the story goes, isn't it? But nothing happens, for a minute, then two…

Dean tries it again, kisses Sam harder, but nothing budges. Sam is dead. Sam stays dead. He starts to panic. If Sam is dead in here, then he really never will wake up. At best, he'll be in a coma and at worst he'll be—

"No," Dean says. He shakes Sam and pulls him in tight against his chest. "No, no, no. That's not how it goes. This isn't how it's supposed to go."

He realizes there's something wet soaking through his shirt where he's pressing against Sam, and he drops his brother's corpse, falling back a little as he realizes what it is. He didn't check Sam for injuries, was too intent on trying to wake him up. There's a puddle of blood soaking through the sheets. There's a puddle of blood right between Sam's legs, and, God forgive him, Dean is too much a coward to push the linens away and see what Lucifer did to his brother. He feels himself about to vomit and turns his face away.

That's when he spots Lucifer. He looks the way he did before he took Sam as a vessel, skin rotting off his meatsuit and everything. The sonofabitch is only a few feet away, standing by one of the windows, watching him mourn over Sam's body quietly. Why he hasn't done Dean the mercy of killing him yet, Dean doesn't know.

There are tears rolling down his cheeks.

Dean jumps to his feet immediately, pulling out the gun and aiming it. Maybe it's too late, maybe Sam's already dead. Maybe the gun will be useless and Lucifer will kill him, too. Dean doesn’t care much about anything anymore, but he knows he wants to empty the weapon into the Devil whether it'll do him any good or not.

"You bastard," Dean says. "How dare you stand there looking like you're sorry?"

Lucifer doesn't answer. He meets Dean's gaze, and something about the way his eyes are shining makes Dean hesitate a second too long before drawing the trigger.

"What are you doing?"

Dean turns his head to the left so fast he nearly pulls something. The voice is Sam's, and, sure enough, his brother is standing there, looking at him. Dean looks to the bed, to the corpse still lying there, and then back at Sam, confused but relieved. Sam is alive. It's not too late.

"Dean, what are you waiting for? Shoot him, please."

He nods and aims his gun at Lucifer again. The Devil hasn't moved an inch. He's watching Dean like he's scared. He's still crying.

It's the weirdest thing Dean has ever seen, and that's saying a lot.

"Why's he doing that?" Dean asks, keeping his gun aimed at Lucifer but turning to look at Sam. "Why's he just standing there?"

"What do I know why he does what he does?" Sam replies, clearly annoyed. "Shoot him before he changes his mind!"

Dean doesn't like it, not one bit. There's a glint in Sam's eye, like he's enjoying this. Dean lowers his gun.

Lucifer takes a step closer, and Sam cuts him a glare. That makes the Devil stop walking. Dean doesn't see Lucifer taking orders from Sam—not even in Sam's head. Maybe especially not in Sam's head. He thinks he's starting to get it.

He raises the gun again, but this time, despite his every instinct, he aims it at his brother instead of the angel.

Sam's mouth drops open. "What the hell, Dean?"

"You're not Sam," Dean says.

Sam—or what looks like Sam—makes a hurt face. He points behind Dean, to the bed and the body Dean winces as soon as he looks at. "Look at what he did to me," Sam pleads. "Look at what he did to me, Dean. Please shoot him."

"Sammy," Dean says, looking up at the Lucifer body, who's still crying silently as he watches without saying or doing a thing. "Sam, are you in there? Is that you in there?"

"I'm right here," says the imposter, starting to sound angry, and Dean keeps his gun trained. "I'm right here, how could you think he's me?"

Dean ignores him, keeps talking to what he thinks is his brother wrapped up in the wrong body. "Sam. That's not what you look like. You are not that," he lets his own voice start pleading, "I know you feel guilty, okay? But that's not you. You gotta take control of this, okay? I can't—I can't fix this for you."

Dean realizes how true it is only after he says it. He's mostly useless here, can do more harm than good. If he shoots Lucifer, Sam won't accept that the Devil was that easy to kill, and he'll come right back. If he makes the wrong choice and shoots Sam, Dean's willing to bet that'll be the bullet Sam believes in. The best he can do is help talk Sam into banishing the monster his mind isn't letting go of.

He bends over slowly, placing the Glock on the floor at his feet, and stands back up, raising his arms in the air.

Both Sam and Lucifer—whichever is which—make confused faces.

"I've got no weapons," Dean tells his brother. "If I'm gonna live through this, you gotta be the one to protect me, Sammy. You can win this for us, I can't. But you have to trust in that."

Lucifer's face shifts in front of him. Sam closes his eyes and holds them like that until finally his body is right again. He looks like Dean's brother. His eyes meet Dean's, and he's still crying, but it's starting to calm. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam. I'm here, man. I've got you."

There's an angry sound from Dean's left, and he turns to see a massive, bright white body of light. It's beautiful, like everyone always said it would be, and Dean knows this is Lucifer's true form—this is what Sam spent hundreds of years trapped in a cell with.

Because it's a dream, Dean is able to look directly at the angel without losing his eyes, but he still feels the burning just from standing this close to something so powerful, and he doesn't want to let himself think of just how much stronger that gets when it's inside of you. Dean already feels like he's trying to walk on the sun.

"You think you can save him?" Lucifer asks. "How do you plan to kill me?"

Dean licks his lips and looks over to Sam, who is staring at Lucifer with a terrified expression. Dean takes one step back. "Sam. You can do it. All you gotta do is wish him away."

"You think he's strong enough for that?" Lucifer asks with a laugh. "He doesn't even know who he is."

"Yeah, he does," Dean insists, because Sam still looks like Sam, and he's got a grip, and Dean trusts that grip. He has to. "You're scared of him. He's beat you just like this before. His mind is stronger than yours, and you know it. You're fucking trembling."

Dean is lying out of his teeth, but Sam seems to take a little courage from it, so he keeps going, "Show him, Sammy. Go on. Show him how strong you are."

The Devil leaps forward, reaching out for Dean, and apparently that's the last straw. It's like he hits an invisible wall, like a demon in a devil's trap.

"You're not hurting my brother," Sam says, stepping between Dean and Lucifer. "You can hurt me, but I won't let you hurt my brother."

"How are you gonna stop me, big shot?" Lucifer teases, but Dean thinks he really does hear the angel starting to get nervous. "Gonna cry a little more? Oh—no. I know. I know what the problem here is. You don't want anyone hurting Dean but you, right? I forgot what a sport that was for you."

Sam frowns; Dean watches his shoulders slump in defeat.

"Sammy, don't let him win."

"He can't do anything else. Your brother's not good for anything but chewing on." Lucifer's face is impossible to see through the rays of his grace, but Dean can hear the nasty smile. "Well, and fucking. But I don't have to tell you that, huh Dean? You forced yourself on him almost as many times as I did."

Suddenly, there's an angel blade in Sam's hand, long silver glinting as Sam points it at Lucifer. The angel seems to shrink then, until he's almost human sized, and he sinks to his knees in front of Sam.

"Do you know what I'm gonna do?" Sam asks, and there's anger there, so much anger that it's like it's really Sam, the stubborn little bastard who used to yell at Dad and who went off drinking demon blood because he thought it was the right thing. It's Sam like Dean hasn't seen him since he took Lucifer to Hell.

"I'm gonna cut you up, just like you made me do to Dean," Sam tells the Devil, sounding delighted. "I'm gonna enjoy it more than I ever enjoyed that."

"You wouldn't," Lucifer says. "You don't have the guts."

Sam laughs. "I'm gonna carve out your guts. I'm gonna cut you up just like I did in the cage. Just like when I took your grace and left you down there to suffer. I'm gonna rip you apart."

"Sammy?" Dean says, and that seems to jolt Sam out of it.

He turns and gives Dean a guilty look before nodding and licking his lips. He turns back to Lucifer. "On second thought, you're not worth the time."

Then he plunges the knife right through Lucifer's face.

Dean hears the start of the Devil's scream, but he sits up awake seconds later, and there's no enchanted castle, no dead Sam, no Lucifer. It's just their room in their weird little house, and Sam is lying next to him, his eyes only starting to crack open.

"Dean," he says quietly as he starts to wake up. "Dean, was that real?"

It takes so much to keep himself together when all he wants to do is grab Sam into his arms and throw him up in the air like he's three years old again. "You did it," Dean says, settling for putting a palm against Sam's cheek. He doesn't think the whole throwing-Sam-in-the-air plan would work out all that well in practice.

Sam puts his hand over Dean's and nearly smiles. "I told you not to rescue me this time."

Dean laughs. "Yeah, I don't blame you," he says. "I wouldn't want anyone in my head if I dreamt about being a princess, either."

His brother sighs. "We're gonna do this already?"

He can't help grinning. "Oh, you bet your sweet ass we are, Rapunzel."

Ruffling Sam's hair, Dean helps him sit up. "How do you feel?"

"I feel…good," Sam says. "Not—I don't feel 100%. I'm tired enough to sleep—"

"For a hundred years?" Dean tries. "Until a dashing prince wakes you with a kiss?"

Sam snorts. "You'd be surprised how many fairytales there are about incest, so I guess we wouldn't be that far off."

"It's sad to me that you know that," Dean says, but he lets Sam reach up and pull him in for a kiss anyway.

"You saved me," Sam says.

Dean waves it off. "You saved both of us, in the end."

"No," Sam insists. "After what I—I'm glad you still wanted to save me."

"See, what I'm gathering from this is that I should never listen when you try to tell me what to do, because actually you mean the opposite."

"I had Lucifer in my head," Sam reasons. "Doesn't count."

Which is actually pretty sound logic, if Dean's gonna be honest. Which he isn't, so he changes the subject, clearing his throat before asking, "Was that true about how you got out of the cage, Sam?"

Slowly, Sam nods. "They turned me into something else, Dean. I was feral, and I wanted out. It was built to hold an angel with grace, it didn't know how to stop a human with it. So I waited until he and Michael were fighting—they did that a lot. And I stole Michael's blade. And when Lucifer came to—it took a lot to carve that grace out. Even with how he treated me. Even with how cold they made me. It was cruel of me to take that from him and leave him down there. But I had to get out. I had to. I didn't care about anything else." He looks away. "I didn't know how out of control it would be once I got topside. But I'd be lying if I said knowing would have stopped me at the time."

"I don't blame you, Sammy," Dean says, kissing him again. "I'm proud of you for getting out of there, okay? And for beating him again and again."

"He's really gone this time," Sam whispers. "Right?"

"I think so," Dean says.

"I don't feel the pain I did before. I mean, I remember everything that happened. I don't know how well I'll be sleeping for the next 3,000 years, but I feel physically okay."

"Baby steps," Dean says. "This is a good enough start for me."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "For me, too."

Dean arranges the blankets around Sam and smiles. "Hey, you hungry princess?"

Sam nods.

"You sleep a little longer, I'll come wake you with some breakfast."

"Mmm, bring bacon," Sam says.

"You're supposed to say you'd rather have a kiss. I'm the handsome prince, remember?"

Sam considers it. "Nah, I'd honestly rather have bacon."

Which Dean takes rather offensively. Nothing is better than kissing him. Still, Sam looks tired, so Dean decides it's an argument better suited to another time. He waits just long enough to watch Sam slip into a quiet doze, and then he creeps out, shutting the door gently behind him.

Sam is easy to wake up twenty minutes later when Dean brings a tray up to him. He seems okay. A little shaken up, but okay. Dean tells him about the projects he wants to work on around the house while Sam inhales three eggs, bacon, and some toast.

They live. That's a happier ending than Dean's used to.

**The End.**


End file.
